


(brother, wanna thank) your mother (for a butt like that)

by eatcheeseliveforever



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 17:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21165578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatcheeseliveforever/pseuds/eatcheeseliveforever
Summary: Stan did not, in fact, have to see it.  He'd been watching the Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak show for five years now, and while he wasn'tthatsurprised to walk in on Eddie lying on Bill's bed and Richie straddling his thighs while the party raged on downstairs, it wasn't anything that needed him as an audience or, god forbid, a participant.





	(brother, wanna thank) your mother (for a butt like that)

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate universe in which all the Losers (sans Beverly) stay in Derry through high school.

"Sorry," Stan said, shielding his eyes, and starting to back out the door. "I'll leave you two--"

"No," said Richie. He was obviously trying to keep his voice down and just as obviously trying to keep his excitement out of it. "You gotta see this."

Stan did not, in fact, have to see it. He'd been watching the Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak show for five years now, and while he wasn't _that_ surprised to walk in on Eddie lying on Bill's bed and Richie straddling his thighs while the party raged on downstairs, it wasn't anything that needed him as an audience or, god forbid, a participant.

Then Eddie let out a soft snore and Stan realized it was safe to look. If what he'd thought was happening had actually been happening, Eddie would have been screaming at him to get the fuck out. Menacing him with whatever he could find until he did. Stan dropped his hand.

Eddie was passed out. That didn't really surprise Stan either: last he'd seen of him, Eddie had been drinking neat vodka from a tumbler he'd filled early on in the evening and then allowed no one else to touch, ranting nonsensically about fart particles. He was sixteen years old and still ninety pounds sopping wet, and Stan kind of judged Bill for letting him at the booze, but then Eddie normally didn't drink a lot. He'd nurse a light beer and lecture them all on the medicinal properties of hops while the rest of them made their way through the twenty-four pack. He wasn't a pedantic drunk, like Mike, or a morose drunk, like Ben. Shit, maybe none of the Losers should drink. But when you lived in Derry, the murder capital of the fucking country, not drinking seemed like a terrible idea, and so they drank. They were teenagers. Bill's parents were permanently checked out, had been since Georgie's death. They were out of town and wouldn't give a shit when they returned. And so the Losers drank.

Eddie, it turned out, was an angry drunk, then a sloppy drunk, than an angry and sloppy drunk, and then finally a sleepy drunk. And Richie was perched over him with a ballpoint pen in hand and another clenched in the corner of his mouth, cackling around it.

He'd tugged down Eddie's waistband a little and was drawing a heart, biker-style, to the left of Eddie's belly button. Richie'd done a good job of it, Stan had to admit. The lines were smooth and precise, the fletching on the arrow detailed, the red crosshatching looked almost like the real deal. Richie dragged his finger away from the band of Eddie's briefs and drew Stan's attention to the little scroll across the heart, which read MOM.

"Makes me feel better about the time you drew a dick on my face on Sharpie," said Stan, philosophically. "Booze seems to improve your artistic abilities immensely."

"I know," said Richie, and added a few more strokes. 

"Too bad it doesn't do anything for your jokes."

Richie flipped him off, but he was still grinning; Stan couldn't have ruined his mood if he'd set the room on fire. "I'm thinking of doing one on myself that says 'Eddie's Mom,'" he said, tracing the outline. "That way when he wakes up I can tell him we got matching tattoos to memorialize our love."

Eddie hated tattoos. He'd once made Heather O'Connor cry by telling her how likely she'd be to die from sepsis from her tiny little ankle star. The way he'd react to being told he'd gotten one would verge on apocalyptic. Stan regretted coming upstairs in the first place. Stan regretted a lot of things. 

"And now," said Richie, pushing his glasses up his nose before flourishing his Swiss Army Knife, "la piece de resistance."

"Don't--"

Richie sliced into his own finger. Stan was actually relieved to see his best friend was bleeding, before he saw that Richie was smearing his blood all around Eddie's fake tattoo.

"For verisimilitude," Richie said.

Stan would have said Richie was a crazy drunk, but Richie was crazy sober too. He watched Richie pull a gauze pad and surgical tape from the folds of Bill's duvet and drip a little more blood onto the gauze.

"Eddie's going to kill you," Stan said, and wished he didn't sound so awed.

Richie smiled and lovingly smoothed the surgical tape around the gauze. "Worth it," he murmured. "_So_ worth it."

**Author's Note:**

> So I said I wouldn't start any new fics until I finished the one that was six months overdue, but these two had me at "your mom."


End file.
